


Hold Me Close, Spin Me Slow

by barricadebutts



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, M/M, Oblique sexual content towards the end, Temporary Character Death, a splash of angst and guilt, and a dash of pining and fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:29:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22885582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barricadebutts/pseuds/barricadebutts
Summary: "This boy, a boy Will is positive he’s never met, feels about as familiar as his right hand—as if he’s been with him his whole life, but that’s silly. Will has never met this boy nor who he assumes to be his brother before, even in all the times he’s come to visit Aunt Eleanor once she’d moved from London. Of this he’s positive. Maybe it’s the way this boy looks at and watches Will like he’s a dear friend come home from war. The scenario is preposterous. Does this kid think he’s someone else? Then again, Will feels that same tug of familiarity of longing for someone returned home from a long journey. This boy’s eyes, blue like the seldom seen sky that occasionally graces London with its presence, feel like a long-distance call home."Or: Will visits his aunt for the weekend and discovers a piece of his past
Relationships: Tom Blake/William Schofield
Comments: 11
Kudos: 141





	Hold Me Close, Spin Me Slow

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, me writing a reincarnation au for war boys who deserved better? It's more likely than you think. I'm happy to contribute my two cents to a quickly growing au in this fandom.  
> Anyway, I'm really happy that I've managed to finish this even though it took me a few weeks.  
> The title is a play on the lyrics "What a rush as you held me close, spinning slow" from 'Drunk On You' by Oh Wonder. It's a bit upbeat, but I feel like the lyrics capture the mood I was going for.  
> Seeing as this is a reincarnation fic, I created a little family tree to keep my dates and relationships straight, so you can find that here if you're interested > > [[x]](https://drive.google.com/open?id=1wzO5w64ffyh-Y6_nu9I1HNAUDCn3uxGV) I also modeled the way Will experiences flashbacks off of the way Juliana remembers her alternate lives on Man in the High Castle, so give that a watch it you haven't already.  
> Much much love to the discord for all the encouragement and to @owlinaminor for beta reading for me and screaming in the drive comments.

_"Sorry I was awkward at first when we met/To be honest, I was nervous to do this again/Haven't met somebody new in what feels like forever/I'm happy we stayed out all night dancing/Oh, what a rush as you held me close, spinning slow/We drank too much, let our bodies touch on the way back home/And I got this feeling, after you leave in the morning/I'll still be drunk on you, still be drunk on you"_

_'Drunk on You'_ \- Oh Wonder

Will’s only in Hatfield because his sister had told him to go and visit Aunt Eleanor. He’s only here because it’s nearly her birthday, and he’s celebrating with her early. The rest of the family, including his mother, sister, and her husband and kids will visit next week when Will’s too busy being bogged down with the rehearsal for his thesis defense. 

Aunt Eleanor resides in a small two-bedroom semi-detached townhouse towards the city center, the guest room decorated with an inordinate amount of cat figurines and pillows. Will knows he shouldn’t be too harsh, but it screams old crazy cat lady. For her love of cats though, she only has one—a French Ragdoll named Eloise. It’s annoyingly fitting.

Will’s in Hatfield, but Aunt Eleanor is at sewing class where she’s instructing a group of Girl Scouts on how to sew small household items. Her being occupied means that she’s left Will to do the grocery shopping for dinner that night.

Aunt Eleanor tells him Saturday mornings and afternoons are typically reserved for the farmer’s market, so she points him in that direction before leaving him alone. The market has everything from home-grown fruits and vegetables to baked goods and crafts. Despite being sent out alone, Will has a list and a backpack of reusable bags to transport his spoils. This farmer’s market isn’t so unlike one he’s been to in London; the people are different and so are some of the products, sure, but the spirit remains the same. 

Twice underlined on the list in Will’s hands is the word ‘cherries’. Aunt Eleanor is renowned for her cherry pie among families and friends, and because she’s preparing one for the small dinner party they’re hosting the following night, the ingredient task list has fallen to Will.

The booth that the cherries are sold at is, at first glance, manned by a boy of comparable age to Will. He’s sitting behind the table in a folding chair with a textbook on his lap, looking about as enthusiastic as expected at 10am on a Saturday. He’s watching the crowd while an older boy, who looks remarkably similar to the one with the textbook, counts change for a woman off to the side.

The market is decently crowded, so Will begins to weave his way to the booth, taking care not to crash into anyone. The movement itself doesn’t take too long, and it’s apparent when this younger boy spots him. Will’s so taken aback by the sudden depth of this boy’s gaze that he briefly stops moving. A shoulder check by someone caught off guard by the abrupt cease of motion shocks Will’s mind back from whatever recess it had wandered off to.

This boy, a boy Will is positive he’s never met, feels about as familiar as his right hand—as if he’s been with him his whole life, but that’s silly. Will has never met this boy nor who he assumes to be his brother before, even in all the times he’s come to visit Aunt Eleanor once she’d moved from London. Of this he’s positive.

Maybe it’s the way this boy looks at and watches Will like he’s a dear friend come home from war. The scenario is preposterous. Does this kid think he’s someone else? Then again, Will feels that same tug of familiarity of longing for someone returned home from a long journey. This boy’s eyes, blue like the seldom seen sky that occasionally graces London with its presence, feel like a long-distance call home.

He’s losing it. He’s been too deep in the literature for his thesis, so consumed by metaphors and poetic prose that now he can’t stop thinking in them. For a moment Will wonders if this look of recognition that the boy has is mirrored on his own face or if he’s doing a better job at schooling these confusing emotions.

Despite that longing look, when Will finally stops in front of him at the table covered in cherries, he doesn’t say anything to explain it. Maybe he just always looks like that, Will thinks before he remembers the feeling he’s just experienced as well.

“You looking to buy some cherries?”

It’s a simple question, but the sound of this boy’s accent, the cadence of the vowels on his tongue, sends a peel of nostalgia in his mind. _What?_ It’s a simple question, but Will still struggles through a simple answer. “Uhh, yeah. I’ve got a list but it doesn’t specify what kind of cherries…” He lamely flashes the list and half-smiles in apology.

“Well, what are you making? Maybe I can help.” Maybe it all _is_ in Will’s head judging by how unbothered this kid is. He pushes the school book in his lap off to the side and stands up to lean across the table, tilting his head to catch a glimpse at the note in Will’s hand.

The boy, who Will realizes is far too close now, leans over the table, reads the list, and then looks up at Will. Those blue eyes are closer now, and Will thinks that maybe it’s a good thing he doesn’t see an unmarred blue sky too much, because if he did, Will would be fucked. A stray curl comes loose from where the boy has brushed it up and away from his face, and Will has to physically clench his fist at his side to restrain himself from offering his unsolicited touch.

From this close, the boy doesn’t seem to be as unbothered as Will had initially thought—something minute changes in his expression that Will somehow catches. Maybe he’s not crazy. Will glances down to where the boy’s got two fingers on the list and sees his nails painted a dark blue; it’s oddly fitting. It’s almost like Will thinks _duh, of course that’s the color he chose because he’s—_ his mind stops short on the name.

“Wait—are you Eleanor Schofield’s nephew?” His voice breaks Will out of that deep corner of his brain that he doesn't have the patience to unpack right now. He’s been asked a question and the boy is pulling away to a much more respectable distance for two people who have only just met. _Have they though?_ Will wants to pull him back—he misses the proximity and the somehow comforting sense of deja vu. 

Nevertheless… “I am. My name’s Will. Does she talk about her family often?” The thought is mortifying.

“Only a little. I recognized her handwriting and list of cherry pie ingredients more. My name’s Tom, by the way.” He extends a hand to Will, who takes it way too eagerly. “I think my family’s coming over to her’s tomorrow night for one of her dinner parties. You’ll be there, right?”

Once again, the question is simple. No more than inquiring about whether Eleanor’s own nephew will be at the dinner party. It’s not some elaborate flirt or line to get Will going, as okay with that as he’d be. “Yeah, I’m here until Monday afternoon celebrating Eleanor’s birthday with her since I won’t be here with my sister and her kids next week. As penance, she’s sent me to do her shopping.”

That line gets a smile and chuckle from Tom, validation warming Will’s chest. Maybe they _are_ flirting.

“Have you been up to see Eleanor much since she’s been here?” _That’s_ gotta be a line, right? When Will hesitates, Tom clarifies: “I’m only asking cause I swear I’ve seen you before. Must just be the family resemblance is all. I think I might’ve met your sister before.”

Will can’t help but feel his heart rate accelerate. Although he’s only been to visit Eleanor a handful of times since the move, he knows he’s never met Tom or his family. More to the point, the other man standing off to the side of the booth that looks like Tom? Will feels no recollection towards him. Tom is an anomaly.

What’s more, Will and his sister barely look alike. They may have the same hair color and set to their eyes, but that’s about it. Charlotte's face is round where his is long, eyes brown where his are blue. There’s almost no possible way that Tom recognizes Will from his sister. And yet, what other explanation could there be?

“It turns out I’m a piss poor nephew to the woman who’s always acted like a second mother to me. Haven’t had a chance to, much.” He skips over the sister resemblance. “Do I know you from uni?” It’s like grasping at straws. “I go to Roehampton.”

Tom shakes his head. “Just Essex. Huh, odd.” _Well, there goes the last rational excuse_ , Will thinks.

They lapse into silence for a few moments, the ambient noises of laughter and chatter from the surrounding patrons buying their fresh goods enough to sustain them. The silence should be awkward, but it strangely isn’t.

Another voice knocks Will out of his head, and he looks to see the other man who had been talking to another customer. He looks remarkably similar to Tom, a better sibling resemblance than Will and his own sister at least. Unlike Tom though, this brother strikes no misplaced feelings of home into Will’s soul. His eyes are just as blue, but they don’t necessarily remind him of the same sky that Tom’s do. He’s not any less handsome than his younger brother, but it’s like there’s something fundamentally missing. Will smiles at him anyway and introduces himself.

“Oh, so you’re Eleanor Schofield’s boy. She sent you down for some cherries then?”

Will nods and notices Tom roll his eyes. “We’ve established that, Joe. I was already helping him out.”

“Were you? When I looked over I could’ve sworn I just saw you making eyes at him.” Will chokes on air and both his and Tom’s faces go beet red.

“Oh, piss off.”

Much to Will’s surprise, Joe relents, raising his hands in surrender before slinking off to count the cash in the cash box. Will watches him go and when he turns back to Tom, the latter’s eyes won’t meet his own. Huh, maybe he _was_ throwing lines at Will then. The thought is endearing and a bit thrilling for the part of his mind that’s become fixated on remembering where he’s seen Tom before.

“Sorry about him,” Tom practically mumbles. His embarrassment brings an empathetic smile to Will’s face; older siblings can be a nightmare.

“It’s alright. You won’t hear any complaining from me about your moon eyes.” Tom’s eyes widen and Will can’t help but smile at his expense. “I mean it, now show me which cherries to buy so I don’t catch hell from Eleanor.”

“Yeah, I can do that.” Tom finally smiles back making Will’s chest feel like it’s simultaneously expanding and contracting, like this warm and homey feeling is trying to make room in a place where there is none. It’s almost like cognitive dissonance, like his metaphorical heart is trying to tell him something. But Will’s had enough of the metaphorical and literary nonsense today, so he accepts the warmth of a fleeting crush for what it is.

The first vision comes only an hour after he leaves the market. He’s back at his aunt’s house stowing the groceries when a flash of white-hot pain streaks across the back of his eyes. Completely caught off guard, Will drops the apples he’d been carrying, thankfully still in their produce bag, and almost collapses to the floor with a strangled cry. Thankfully the counter is within reach, and Will grabs onto it with all his strength while his knees buckle.

At first, he thinks it could be a migraine, but then he sees images shifting behind his closed eyes. They’re fast and hazy, and he grabs the nearest solid surface to keep himself upright as dizziness overtakes him. Will sees explosions and trenches; knee-level water where there shouldn’t be, and bodies, so many bodies. Any of these images would be distressing on their own, and together Will thinks he might actually be dying. He’s having some kind of aneurysm and no one’s home to help him. At least he hasn’t fallen face-first on the floor yet. 

Then through it all, a face. A calm and gentle face, soft at the edges that would be impossible to feel scared in the presence of. It’s the face of Tom, except not the Tom he’d just met clad in a black jumper and jeans, but a Tom in the uniform of a World War one infantryman, kit and rifle strapped across his torso and back.

Will somehow knows that this Tom is kind-hearted despite the horrors he’s seen, despite what the surrounding men just out of sight of Will’s vision think to be naivety and foolishness. This is true, without question, and though he doesn’t yet know the real Tom, the actual one here and alive, Will knows it’s still true for him

The pain fades after too long to a dull throbbing. His vision clears and Will exhales a breath he’s unaware he’d been holding. His fingers ache from clenching at the counter with blunt fingernails, chest burning as if he’d been hyperventilating. The apples lay a few feet from him on the floor, and Will briefly hopes they’re not too bruised.

“What the fuck?” He whispers to himself. He’s never experienced migraines himself, but Will has had a few friends over the years who have. He’s well aware that people can experience auras and light sensitivity, but he’s pretty sure detailed visions of events that occurred in the past don’t typically happen.

What’s more, something about the visions themselves had seemed undeniably real and lifelike—like a dream where you’re convinced you’re awake the whole time. Only this time he is. He’s simultaneously frightened, and, weirdly, as the minutes drag on with him standing at the counter, reassured. There’s some word that’s escaping Will’s grasp that describes what he’s experiencing, a word that makes total sense if only he could remember it.

The sound of Aunt Eleanor unlocking the front door chases the thought from Will’s mind for much of the afternoon.

These images in his mind create a sort of half image. An image reminiscent of looking through a fogged over piece of glass where shapes are visible, but trying to detect defined features is futile. He’s able to grasp at obtuse concepts of events and individuals, but the specifics remain out of reach despite how he tries to pin them down. Yet still, the essence of them serves to inform Will of what’s really happening. His name is William Schofield and he’s lived multiple lives. It’s an oddly calming thought; it makes him feel settled in his bones for once.

After he’d woken up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, the image of Tom’s pale face and blood coloring his vision red, Will had run to the bathroom to throw up. He had proceeded to scrub furiously at his hands, convinced for a few minutes that he still had Tom’s blood staining his cuticles. When morning rolls around, Will thankfully wakes up much slower. The dream escapes him now, but it leaves an imprint in its wake that leaves him reeling.

Yesterday, Will had thought Tom seemed familiar, but the morning, the thought of Tom feels properly like home. Will has a vague recollection of a smile, the weight of Tom over him, the feel of his hands on his bare skin. And what’s better is that he knows exactly where Tom is. Will doesn’t have to search the country for what’s quickly becoming evident is his other half.

For a moment, Will lets himself imagine a world where he gets to spend another lifetime with Tom Blake. It’s only when he hears Eleanor moving around the house that he drags himself out of bed, triggering a quick succession of images before his eyes. The white-hot pain of yesterday doesn’t overwhelm him, but images of Tom dying, Will knelt over him in a few different periods, does. 

The dream from earlier sears across the inside of his eyelids: Tom cradled in Will’s arms, hands entwined as he bleeds out from a stab wound in his stomach. Tom had been nineteen and so ambitious and carefree that it made the minutes unbearable watching the color drain from his face.

A new vision of Tom with a gunshot wound in his thigh, fatal as it is no doubt painful, swims across Will’s vision. Will’s got his face cradled in his hands this time, eyes and thoughts focused on Tom while the medics try and stem the flow of blood. It’s a background thought, but Will registers that it’s winter and shells are falling around them, trees exploding in every direction. The second world war. Belgium.

The last flash of the past that assaults Will thankfully isn’t from a war. Briefly, Will thinks that maybe he’s about to earn a reprieve, but then he sees Tom sick in a hospital bed, pale and thin. This is different than Tom being killed in action. He's a civilian this time, he’s done literally nothing to deserve death in a white sterile room surrounded by alarms and beeping machines.

The visions fade as abruptly as they’d come on, the sunlight from the present filtering into his great aunt’s guest room. Will’s on his hands and knees on the floor, tears streaming from his eyes. A wave of nausea rolls through Will’s stomach, and it’s all he can do to push himself off the floor to make it to the toilet down the hall. That feeling of home he’d felt earlier is still there, but a greater feeling of dread overwhelms him. Every life Will can remember ends with Tom dying in his arms. It’s as if the mere presence of Will is enough to kill him. Maybe he’s cursed.

If Will was smart, he’d pack his bag right now, get on the first train back to London, and save Tom from a repeat of these last lives. Will’s not smart though, because Eleanor’s dinner party is tonight and if he left now, he’d never hear the end of it. Eleanor’s dinner party is tonight _and Tom’s family is meant to be in attendance_. 

Will can’t talk to Tom about this, he can’t let him know, because if Tom knows then Will won’t be able to turn him away. If Tom is clueless, then Will can pretend that he’s just a new kid he’s met, that he’s not leaving behind a part of his soul.

His stomach sufficiently emptied, he leans back against the tub, closes his eyes, and just breathes. In between the gut-wrenching memories of Tom dying, he thinks of the few good memories his mind has given him. Will remembers the warmth of Tom laying in the bed next to him, hogging the blankets despite the temperature. 

He remembers the numerous times that Tom saved Will from certain death, and then his mind wanders back to the times he was unsuccessful in doing the same. A frustrated groan leaves Will’s throat, peeved at the fact that he can’t get it out of his head.

The telltale creak of weight on the floorboards outside the bathroom beckons for Will’s attention. There’s no point in opening his eyes because there’s only one person it could be. “Will? Are you okay, love?” Aunt Eleanor sounds concerned, though Will can’t blame her given the state he no doubt looks to be in.

He’s sure that he’s pallid, cold sweat covering every inch of his skin. “I’m fine. Just woke up wrong, I think. I’ll be fine.” He sounds horrible to his own ears, so he can only imagine what he sounds like to her. She’s silent and unmoving, but eventually, Will hears her move back down the hallway.

For the next ten minutes, Will sits by the tub, ruminating on these new memories. He doesn’t yet have the whole story for these past lives. Most of them still hide behind that fogged glass of his mind. The positive memories, actual memories and not ghosts of feelings, evade him, despite how he tries to dig for them.

Could it be because he just doesn’t know Tom well enough in this life yet? Could it be that his subconscious is desperately trying to keep him away from Tom to keep him alive this time? Perhaps he should try taking a cue.

Eventually, he drags himself up from the floor and brushes his teeth to rid himself of the stale taste of old throw up. There’s too much to do today, so Will tells himself he needs to pull it together. He needs to help Eleanor today and he needs to do his utmost to avoid Tom until dinner. Will’s willpower might be strong, but he doesn’t think it’s that strong.

Most of the afternoon passes without another hiccup like this morning. Will has a few more flashes of memory: he and Tom lying under a tree as a fall breeze blows through, calm and content in the middle of war. A glimpse of a beach, himself alone with thousands of men and shells and airplanes. As he’s walking through town with Eleanor at one point, the sound of a car honking makes him jump a few inches, his heart rate spiking. Eleanor glances at him from the corner of her eye but remains silent.

While Eleanor’s in the kitchen that afternoon preparing for the party, she tells Will to lie down for an hour, that his paleness and jumpiness have been making her nervous all day and he needs to snap out of it. Heedless to argue, Will obeys and falls asleep for an hour.

Predictably, Tom visits him in his dream, only he’s not dying for once. Tom’s dressed in minimal clothing, lying in bed and simply looking at Will. His eyes are soft, hair unbrushed, and a soft smile playing on his lips. Will wonders for a moment what period it is until he hears something that sounds like the voice of Freddie Mercury crooning softly over the radio. The 80s were largely good to them for the short time they were together.

“What are you looking at?” Will mumbles, voice rusty with sleep.

The croak of Will’s voice just contributes further to Tom’s smile. “Just looking. That little crease in between your eyebrows disappears when you sleep, did you know?”

Will snorts. “I did not. Is it back now that I’m awake?”

Tom doesn’t answer, but rather shuffles closer and leans up on an elbow to be closer to Will. He leans into Will’s space and places a lingering kiss in between Will’s eyes. The action is unbelievably soft, effectively wiping the creases from Will’s face. The warmth that spreads out from Will’s chest threatens to smother him with its tenderness. “There,” Tom murmurs, still a hair's breadth away. “All better.”

The two of them simply stare at each other for a few seconds before Tom leans down to kiss Will. But as soon as he feels himself get into it, Will’s wrenched from the dream to the sound of Eleanor’s voice downstairs.

“William! The Blakes are here; come downstairs!”

Will feels a sense of dread fall over him. _Away from one Tom and back to another it seems,_ he thinks while also trying to rid his mind of the dream he’s just woken from. It’s the kind of memory that would ordinarily make Will ecstatic that he’s found Tom, it has been in the past at least. The only thing now though is that he’s convinced that he’s going to get Tom killed again; twice is a coincidence, but three times is a pattern. So tonight he’ll put on a mask and distance himself from the idea that he knows Tom more intimately than he should. He’ll only be there for Aunt Eleanor.

Of course theory, nearly always trumps practice. When he sees Tom standing in the kitchen next to his brother, flashes of mud and fear echo in his brain. _“He’s like me, just a little bit older.”_ Tom turns to Will, and Will hadn’t anticipated how much seeing Tom again would feel like looking at a ghost. His breath stutters in his throat before he can force a smile on his face, but he doesn’t know if Tom notices. For a moment, Will swears that Tom’s eyes go wide in a new type of recognition, but the look is gone almost as quickly as Will thought he had seen it.

The rest of the evening passes much slower than Will would have liked. Against his better judgment, he spends a fair amount of time with Tom and Joe, beers in each of their hands. Alcohol could create a dangerous situation with lowered inhibitions, but besides a few odd and questionable glances from Tom, he gives no indication that he remembers Will. On one hand, Will’s relieved, on another he feels disappointed and let down.

Tom quizzes him on his thesis at one point, asking him what he’s done it on and how he liked going through the program. The answers come out rehearsed; Will has talked and rambled about his thesis for the last year, there’s nothing novel to say at this point.

At one point, Will catches a thought he almost voices aloud about something only Tom would know, and it freezes him mid-conversation. It starts in his head as _‘Do you remember that one time when…’_ , but this Tom and this Will don’t have any memories yet. As soon as he’s able to wrap his quickly clouding mind around the thought, he pushes it to the recesses of his mind and it’s gone, though it doesn’t stop Tom from narrowing his eyes in Will’s direction. He’s getting lazy, his defenses lowering with the easy camaraderie and flow of alcohol. 

Tom begins to ramble on about a philosophy class he’s taking after Joe spouts something particularly profound, broaching topics of predestination and consciousness that feel dangerously close to personal in this weird multi-life world Will’s found himself living in. Will’s defenses are so stupidly lowered, that when Tom interjects asking if either of them believed in past lives, Will unthinkingly answers, “Sure, why not?” Only when the words are out of his mouth, when he can’t take them back from where they’ve disappeared into the ether, does he realize what he’s said.

Joe nods sagely from around the neck of his beer bottle. “I agree with Will. Who’s to say we’re only given one life to live?” Will, who is pointedly _not_ looking in Tom’s direction, hears him snort and sees one of his hands reach out to shove at Joe.

“Don’t be a smart ass.”

The conversation is dropped shortly thereafter, and Will only realizes later that Tom never answered his own question. Was the question simply bait to get Will to reveal that he knows something? Was it supposed to signal to Will that Tom remembers everything? Was it genuinely just a topic they had discussed in his philosophy class as Tom had claimed? Will decides he’d rather not know and takes a swig of his own bottle to avoid letting his gaze be pulled into the maelstrom that is Tom’s stare.

For the remaining time that Eleanor hosts company, Will somewhat successfully manages to avoid Tom. While the get together isn’t as large and crowded as it will be in two weeks, plenty of his aunt’s friends are eager to talk to him about what he’s accomplished at school, eager to talk to the young man that Eleanor has no doubt gushed and praised over for the last twenty-four years. 

A few times, Will turns to see Tom whispering something to Eleanor, head tilted toward each other as if they were co-conspirators in a plot to frame him for some crime. Through the light haze of alcohol, he tells himself that _no_ , that’s just paranoia. Eleanor and Tom are likely talking about an endless possibility of things, most of which undoubtedly don’t concern Will.

When the last of Eleanor’s guests leave, Will is beyond exhausted, though he can’t be sure if it’s from socializing or trying to avoid spilling his guts to Tom all night. At this point, he doesn’t delve into the why, and instead wishes his aunt a goodnight and slinks up the stairs. The two of them have cleaned most of the mess with Will promising to clean the rest of it for her in the morning.

In a turn of events, Will’s dreams that night actually resemble dreams rather than memories. Sure, there are bits of memory thrown in, but his subconscious decides to have a field day with images of Tom dying, in ways both truthful make-believe. He thinks, _I did this_ after a German shell splinters an evergreen above them, raining shrapnel and splinters while the medics try to stop the bleeding. A rational part of Will’s subconscious says _No you didn’t,_ but Will did. By being near him, Will’s caused Tom’s demise yet again.

Something startles him awake by the sixth time he watches the German pilot stab Tom through the torso out back of that French farmhouse. He’s gasping for breath, hair matted down to his forehead with sweat. This shouldn’t be happening. The bad dreams and memories should be over now that he remembers what’s happening-- that’s how it _always_ worked in the past. Except now this time, Will’s figured out that he’s the reason why their lives keep resetting in this off-brand reenactment of groundhog day. It’s him.

The solution is simple, really. In the morning, once the chores are finished and the trains are running, but before Tom has time to track Will down, he’ll pack his things and leave. It’ll hurt at first, leaving Tom and not saying goodbye, but it’s for Tom’s own safety. He _has_ to make sure he’s not the reason Tom dies in this life.

The bedside clock reads 3:15, so Will sucks it up and closes his eyes.

At the first peek of sunlight, Will is up and dressed downstairs with the kettle on and the garbage can open. Eleanor isn’t up yet, so Will is quiet while he sprays down the countertops and wipes away the remnants of last night. Time passes idly; he makes himself a cup and then two of tea before the sounds of Eleanor upstairs emanate through the floorboards. The chores do him some good to get his mind off of past lives and of Tom. Tom who Will swears has died in front of him more times than he hasn’t over the last 100 years. The thought that Tom’s here again within arm’s distance makes Will want to break out into a cold sweat for a couple of different reasons. 

It’s clear to him now that their souls are bound, that they’ll somehow always find each other, but just this once, would it be so bad if they didn’t? If the two of them don’t find each other, maybe Tom will get the chance to live. He’ll be gone tomorrow anyway, back to London to finish his Master’s degree. He can make it very easy to never see this boy again. Just when Will takes a look at his handiwork, the damn doorbell rings.

Ordinarily, it might be a neighbor who needed an egg or some coffee, but the universe isn’t kind. The universe is a cruel mistress who likes to see good men suffer over and over again for her own enjoyment. Will has a feeling he knows _exactly_ who’s at the front door.

The doorbell chimes again and Eleanor calls to him from upstairs, “ _Will,_ can you get that?”

“Yeah!” He sighs to himself and pulls the door open, not fully expecting to see the friendly face of a neighbor. Like he had hoped against, Will sees the last person he wants to at that moment.

Tom is standing in the doorway, a frown pulling at the corners of his mouth. Will hasn’t seen him since the glass had officially defogged in his head, and the sight of him here and now turns his stomach. 

“Tom,” Will whispers, his breath escaping in a sound of awe as if he’s seeing him for the first time. Will can only imagine what he looks like standing in the doorway of his aunt’s house, a history of a hundred years written plainly across his face.

“I need to talk to you, Lance Corporal William Schofield.” He sounds bothered, annoyed that Will would make him come to him rather than the other way around.

The visceral reaction that travels up Will’s spine at the mention of his rank coming from Tom’s mouth weakens his resolve to stay away. It makes it harder to push Tom back into the safe embrace of his mother and brother, away from Will’s cursed existence.

Will opens his mouth to speak, gets as far as the enunciation of a vowel before he hears the creak of weight on the stairs and hears Eleanor’s voice. “Is that Thomas Blake I hear?”

In the blink of an eye, Tom’s eyes shift back to the present, a smile settling onto his face as he spots Eleanor on the stairs. “Hello, Mrs. Schofield. How are you this morning?”

Thankfully, she doesn’t come farther down the stairs than a few steps. “I can’t complain. Is your mother well? She had quite the time last night.”

Tom nods and smiles, “Yes, I think so. I just stopped by because I needed to talk to Will for a moment.” Will doesn’t know if he imagines it, but his name sounds forced out of Tom’s mouth with a casualness he knows he doesn’t feel.

Eleanor smiles and nods, retreating up their stairs. “That’s fine. Have a good day, Thomas.”

“You too, Mrs. Schofield.” He watches her go, that hard look back on his face as soon as she’s out of sight. “Can we go somewhere?”

The return to the implication of the proceeding conversation causes Will’s heart rate to accelerate. “Yeah, we can go into the back garden.” Reluctantly, he has Tom follow him through the house and out into the small garden off the kitchen.

Every step that they take is one more that Will has to walk back later. It’s one step more to forget and overcome-- one more ounce of effort that will be required to push Tom away. The silence that falls over them when Tom closes the back door behind them feels suffocating. Will wants to run, but he also wants to pull Tom into a hug and never let go. If Tom doesn’t say anything soon, Will’s going to scream.

“Were you going to tell me you remembered or were you just going to fuck off back to London and never say anything?” Will very nearly flinches, holding himself back because Tom sounds _angry_. He hadn’t expected that despite how he had looked when Will had opened the front door.

Will looks down from Tom’s hard eyes and kicks at a loose paving stone. “Honestly I wasn’t going to say anything because I thought you’d be better off without me.”

He’s not finished speaking, but Tom interrupts, practically yelling. “What?! Have you been thumped on the head? Are you serious?” Tom’s volume is too loud this time for Will to hold back his flinch; he directs his gaze back to Tom’s face.

“Do you understand how many times I now remember you dying? Why would I want to experience that again? See you suffer because I’m near you?” Will encroaches into Tom’s space, but Tom holds his ground, staring defiantly back at Will. A wave of anger comes over him at that moment. Tom doesn’t understand, _can’t_ understand what that was like for him. Watching someone you love die over and over again?

“That doesn’t mean you get to choose to leave without _talking_ at least! I woke up this morning with multiple _full_ new sets of memories in my head. Memories which nearly all include you, but no word from you. For a moment I thought you’d already left, and that _terrified_ me. “ 

Tom’s voice had leveled off into something quieter now that they’re closer, and Will is surrounded by the smell of him. He wants to run his fingers through Tom’s hair and see if it still feels the same as he remembers it, wants to see if his skin feels as soft as it used to under his fingertips.

“Every time you died destroyed me. It was like dying myself, and I don’t know what I’ll do if--” Will’s throat closes on the thought; Tom tilts his head to the side in sympathy, the angry look in his eyes gone as quickly as it had come.

Will closes his eyes against the impending tears he can feel just behind his eyes and tries to step away to breathe. Tom, ever the stubborn kid in every life, catches his fingers under Will’s chin to keep him in place. It’s a light touch, one that Will could easily wrench himself from, but he feels trapped by it. It grounds him, and if he leans into the touch, then it’s because it’s been too long since he’s felt Tom’s hands on him.

“Look at me, Will.” His eyes open at the request, blue eyes meeting blue, and Will absolutely melts. The only way this plan was ever going to have worked was if Will had packed his bag as soon as he had realized what had been happening.

“I might not know you very well yet in this life, but I know I’ve loved you for a hundred years, so that’s gotta count for something, yeah?”

“But what if--” Will wants to say _‘What if you die because of me again?’_ but Tom doesn’t let him get the words out. Instead, he tilts his head and meets Will’s lips in a crushing kiss that sends sparks traveling up his spine.

It’s not a particularly frantic kiss, not a chaste or gentle one, but perhaps one bordering on needy. Yet it’s a careful slide of lips that press long and deep like they’ve been doing this for the last hundred years. Will grasps at Tom’s wrist still holding his chin, desperate for something to ground him, while Tom’s other hand is clenched in Will’s shirt. If the sight of Tom again was going to make it difficult to leave, the _feel_ of him again is going to make it impossible.

He feels the pressure of teeth on his bottom lip and Will barely lets escape a low groan. Tom loses control of the kiss then, a smile breaking out across his face. Will’s lips press to Tom’s teeth once before he realizes what’s happened. Fond eyes meet him when Will opens his.

“Guess I’ve still got it, yeah?”

A smile of Will’s own splits his face, his eyes rolling at Tom’s question. “You think so?”

“Mmmm.” And then the mood shifts imperceptibly; Tom closes his eyes and slides his arms around Will’s waist, letting his head come to rest in the crook of Will’s neck. The hug is so soft that the action nearly knocks the breath from Will. He barely hesitates before wrapping his own arms around Tom.

Silence descends for several moments. Giving in to his urge from earlier, Will lets himself slide a hand through Tom’s hair now, finding that it’s softer than he remembers it. He listens to the soft breath of Tom, feels it against the side of his neck, reveling in the way the baby hair there stands up in response. 

Eventually, Tom speaks from his position, still not daring to move. “Did you know I’m twenty-two this time ‘round? I’ve already made it further than the first time.” 

It’s so earnest yet cynical at the same time that Will can’t help the choked laughter that sounds wet to his ears. “Don’t talk like that.”

Of all the things Will had anticipated to remember he missed when he got his memories back, the weight of Tom’s head in his lap wasn’t one he had actively thought of. The two boys are seated up against the side of the house now after having had their heart to heart, Will making the executive decision to sit. He’s still practically vibrating with adrenaline after being forced to confront his fears about Tom’s multiple deaths, the adrenaline of finally feeling Tom’s lips on him again.

Rather than sit by his side, Tom lays down and places his head in the crook of Will’s lap, looking up to stare at him as if he had the answers for everything. God grant him strength.

The sun is still somewhat low in the sky throwing long shadows off particularly larger objects. The two of them are small in the grand scheme of things, sat at the base of the house, and as the sun casts its light onto them, rays catching in Tom’s hair and eyelashes, Will’s not wholly positive that they aren’t both already dead.

The pull to comb his fingers through Tom’s hair is too great, especially with the way it looks in the light, so Will grants himself a small concession in a losing war. Tom’s eyes slide shut at the feeling, and Will knows he’s lost.

Silence stretches around them; Eleanor hasn’t come to find them just yet, and Will knows they’re existing on borrowed time. A particularly chilly breeze blows through the row of yards, and Will feels Tom shiver. He opens his eyes and reaches up to pull Will’s hand from his hair and down to his mouth to kiss at his palm. It’s tender and piercing and makes Will feel _seen_. 

“I think Eleanor knows,” Tom murmurs, cradling Will’s hand to his cheek.

The question feels abrupt and strange coming from Tom. His eyebrows furrow. “Know what? That we’re still sitting outside? I have no doubt that she was up there spying out the window.”

Tom smiles and releases Will’s hand in favor of reaching up to stroke across the expanse of Will’s cheek. His touch is fleeting, but he looks conflicted, as if he were debating on telling Will something. “No, about our past lives.”

If Will had thought the last question felt abrupt, this statement feels like he’s been kicked in the chest. Will digs through his memories, his new ones, for anything of Eleanor. The fogged glass barrier is gone, access to his past selves like a library now. Sure enough, he remembers the day Eleanor was born in 1953. He remembers watching her grow until that death of his, alone in 1960. Tom had been long dead in that life by then. Memories of chasing Eleanor around their country lane, the older girl never quite growing tired of him.

Eleanor is the one he had always confided in throughout that life; he had told her and only her of the nature of his and Tom’s relationship when they met in university, and she had been the one he’d come to when Tom got sick. To everyone else, they had simply been close friends. She had looked at him with a particular sadness once he’d been left alone. 

Will thinks of the way Eleanor’s been acting since yesterday morning, calm and unquestioning through Will’s off behaviors. Whispering to Tom at the party and the understanding of him having to lay down before it.

Would it be so bad if Eleanor knew the truth? If she’d figured it out in the past and not done anything drastic, why wouldn’t she do the same now? Nevertheless, the thought of it terrifies him.

Realizing he’s not answered Tom, he swallows and braces himself. “What makes you say that?”

“At the party last night, she came over to me and said, ‘This is always the best part, isn’t it?’” A memory of Eleanor leaned into Tom conspiratorially, as if they were sharing some secret.

“Do you remember her from last time?” Will wants to look somewhere else, anywhere but at Tom’s wide eyes, but the pull is too strong. He’s spent too long separated from these eyes, he’d be a fool to look away now.

Tom purses his lips and thinks for a moment. “I think so. She was younger though, but I remember how much she loved you, how protective she was of you. Do you think she could’ve known then?”

“Maybe. She might have figured it out once you died. I don’t know though. I don’t want to think about that right now.” They’re about thirty-five years on from it, and the thought is still too painful.

This close, Tom must see the emotion painted plainly on Will’s face because he nods and pushes himself up from Will’s lap to kiss him gently. It’s both understanding and placating, an apology and forgiveness—a promise that things will be different this time. No one could ever understand them as well or as wholly as they understand each other.

Will cradles the back of Tom’s head, letting his fingers scratch lightly at his scalp. The simple movement has Tom redoubling the kiss into something more demanding, the latter gripping at the space between Will’s shoulder and neck.

He desperately wants to get lost in the kiss, can feel himself beginning to when Tom grazes Will’s bottom lip with his teeth. Will bites back a groan when he hears a window above them being pushed open. 

Eleanor’s voice startles the two boys apart, but not by far. “When you boys are finished, come in for some tea, would you?” The window clicks shit without giving them any time to refute her statement. Will is horrified, but Tom is evidently beyond amused by the turn of events that are quickly unfolding. Their faces are beet red for sure, but Tom can’t stop smiling like a fool.

“You think she saw us?” Tom murmurs into the space between them.

Through his mortification, Will finds it in him to roll his eyes fondly. “Yeah, I think she saw us.”

“Mmm.” The smile falls from Tom’s face as he leans over to mouth at Will’s jaw. It feels unbelievably good, and Will can feel his eyes begin to slide shut, his grip on Tom’s hair tightening at the feeling. Will wonders how he ever thought he could live without this.

“Tom we can’t… Eleanor…” He’s trying, he really is, but Tom makes it so difficult—he always has, Will remembers. Tom groans in frustration and pulls away, lips red and breath coming out in soft pants.

“Fuck, but we have thirty-five years to make up for.” It’s petulant, but Will can’t help but snicker.

He schools his features and brushes a loose curl out of Tom’s face. “I know. Soon, yeah?”

Reluctantly, Tom climbs up from the ground, off of Will’s lap, and to his feet. Will immediately misses his warmth and weight, but he’s got to be the adult in this scenario no matter how much he aches to be touched by Tom, to be laid out and relearned.

Inside, Eleanor is stirring milk into her tea, the kettle steaming off to the side. She smiles at them pleasantly, a soft close-lipped grin on her face. “Would either of you like any tea? I boiled some extra water because you two were taking too long.”

Will’s eyes widen and he hears a snicker of laughter muffled into a fake cough. Turning to glare at Tom, Will sees the former with a hand covering his mouth, gaze pointed toward the kettle and away from Will. Bastard.

“Yeah, I’ll have some,” Tom says conversationally. He looks up at Will, quirking an eyebrow, a silent question that they have always been so skilled at navigating. Will shakes his head though since he’d already had two that morning.

Turning back to face Eleanor, he sees her watching them now from the kitchen table, a small manila folder in front of her and her kind, knowing eyes. Have her eyes always looked like that? Has she always looked like she can see right through him and read him better than Tom himself?

“Come sit, boys.”

Will feels a sense of dread as he pulls the chair out. A heavy air descends as Tom busies himself with the sugar and milk; Will remembers how he’s always liked his tea too sweet. 

“Have I ever told you about my uncle or brother, the ones you’re named after?”

Suddenly Will feels trapped in an odd situation. In this life? No, no one really talked about his uncle who had died right before he was born. He had been a bit of a black sheep from what he had been told. But Will knows now that he had lived those lives as well, he knows everything she could possibly tell him. He feels numb when he shakes his head.

“My uncle died when I wasn’t too old, but he told me stories of this boy he knew back in the war.” Tom sits down as quietly as he can in the chair next to Will. An ankle nudges one of Will’s own, and he feels himself relax minutely. “He told me that this boy died back in the war, but that there wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t think of him. One time he told me that he’d travel across the fields of Asphodel for him if it meant he could see him again. I’m not sure he should’ve been telling a seven-year-old all this, but it’s stuck with me all these years.”

Eleanor reaches into the folder and pulls out a photo, yellowing at the edges. Will’s stomach drops as she pushes the photo across the table, face down so he can see the small print of a caption. The words _‘Thomas Blake, x. 1942.’_ stare up at him. The anticipation of seeing the picture of Tom on the other side, of any of the countless photos he’d taken over their short time together makes his heart race. Will can feel Tom’s eyes on him, just as eager to look.

The photo that greets him isn’t Tom’s army portrait, but rather one of Tom in his dress uniform leaning forward on his elbows at a cafe table and gazing into the camera with a fond smile, his eyes full of love and mirth. Will remembers the photo now that he’s looking at it; this had been one of his favorites of Tom.

On one of their leaves, Will had picked up a cheap camera and had taken pictures of anything and everyone he came across. Tom had been the subject of more than one photo on the roll, including a more risque one of Tom laying in bed, the sheets around him a mess and a blissed-out smile on his face. He hopes that one isn’t in Eleanor’s folder.

Tom and he both stare at the photo in silence for several moments. He’s too afraid to look at either Eleanor or even Tom, so he stares at the photo while Eleanor plows on.

“My brother was born shortly after Uncle Will died, so mum and dad named him in honor of dad’s brother. My Will was a happy kid, a few years younger than me, so I felt a particular sense of protectiveness. There was a time after he’d gone away to university and come home for the summer, where he’d all of a sudden seemed like he’d been replaced by a different person. I assumed at first that it was just because he went to uni. But suddenly he had recurring nightmares and looked as if he was carrying the weight of too many sorrows on his shoulders.

“Then one day he confided in me that he’d met a boy in one of his classes, a boy whom he was incredibly fond of, and told me he would go to the ends of the Earth for. I could tell no one about what he’d confided in me about, ignoring the fact that I wasn’t going to.” Eleanor pauses to take a sip from her tea, and Will feels nauseous. He knows all about this part, but Tom’s hearing it for the first time. As if sensing his nervousness, he feels Tom’s foot press against his calf and remain there.

“He brought the boy to lunch one day for me to meet, and he told me his name was Thomas Blake.” Tom inhales a little sharper than Will thinks he meant to. “I thought I was hallucinating because this was the same young man I’d seen in my uncle’s photos. I didn’t say anything to Will though because I wasn’t sure of what I’d even say. It wasn’t hard to see how much Thomas meant to Will, and I think a part of me hoped that Uncle William had been successful in finding his Thomas in Elysium and bartered for a new life for them both.

“When Tom died, I think a part of Will did too. He seemed to withdraw into some deeper part of himself, more sorrow on his shoulders. He stayed in his studio a lot after that. It was like a part of his soul had been forcibly removed. He left me these photos and others when he died a few years later. They’re photos he didn’t care for anyone else to see. I dug them out again the day I met you, Tom.”

Tom’s head shoots up and away from where Will could feel his gaze. Will chances his own glance over at Tom and sees him wide-eyed and mouth parted in surprise.

“I would have recognized you anywhere by the time I moved here. Whenever my new, younger William came to visit, I had hoped he might run into you, but he never did. Until now.”

Eleanor slides the larger stack of photos across the table for the two of them to flip through. “I have a whole box upstairs in my safe too.” She grows silent while she lets the two of them peruse the stack. 

Will remembers the flat they’d rented back in the early ‘80s-- two bedrooms; He’d turned the second one into a dark room for his photography. In the comfort of his own darkroom, Will hadn’t worried about what kinds of photos he’d taken. He knows for sure that there were pictures in his studio when his family had come to clean after he’d died that they would have been mortified to see, but thankfully none of those are here right now.

There’s a photo of him and Tom surrounded by friends in a park, smiling and having the time of their lives. A few dramatic portraits of Tom and their friends at the time litter the pile as well. At one point, they come across a photo that causes the breath to stutter in Will’s chest. The photo appears innocuous, one of Tom sat shirtless in bed, sheets pooled in his lap. He’s got his head half-bowed, a smile splitting his cheeks, and a hand reached out as if trying to block himself from the camera’s view. On instinct, Will flips over the print to read the caption on the back. In that careful and small print of his reads, _‘Tom, August 1985. One of the last healthy days at home.’_

Tom sucks in a breath, Will trying and failing to hold back a sudden sob. He doesn’t necessarily remember this moment, but he remembers the high right before the low, right before the light had died from Will’s world for the third time in a row. He’s happy this photo survived in Aunt Eleanor’s care.

One of Tom’s hands slides across the table to cover Will’s, a comforting weight, a weight that says _I’m here now_.

“When did you know?” Will’s voice breaks halfway through the question, and he feels Tom lean into him, his lips pressing into the shirt sleeve of Will’s shoulder. He doesn’t care that Aunt Eleanor is looking on, the overwhelming feeling of dread threatening to consume him is greater.

“By the time you stopped looking like a generic baby, I had my suspicions. There wasn’t really a way to prove it though because it didn’t seem like you had any of the other memories. When I moved here after you went to university and met Tom and his family, I figured I was correct in my suspicions. Tom didn’t seem to remember me either though, so I figured there was another piece to the puzzle; you had to find each other again. I figured you becoming sick yesterday was probably the start of it. Just like last time, I won’t breathe a word of it to anyone. You both deserve to live in peace for once.”

Tears escape unbidden from Will’s eyes, love and fear and relief warring within him. “Aunt Eleanor I--”

She interrupts him before he can fight to get the rest of the words out. “There is nothing to say. I’m going to run down to Sainsbury’s for some breakfast things, okay? When I get back we won’t speak of it again should you choose.”

For the first time, he notices that she’s fully dressed as if this had been her plan all along. Will feels incredibly thankful, and he nods. Tom and he remain seated as she leaves, and stay where they are for a few minutes before Tom hooks his fingers under Will’s chin and directs his attention to him.

“Will,” he breathes, so quiet Will barely hears him.

He’s still clutching at the photo of Tom in bed, and now Tom removes it to gently place it on the table. “I’m right here, love. We’re not there anymore.” He reaches up to brush away the fallen tears; Will doesn’t deserve this boy.

Rather than acknowledge him verbally, Will crashes their lips together with more desperation than they had done earlier. He catches the side of Tom’s face with one of his hands and fists the other in the t-shirt Tom’s wearing.

There’s not enough time to do anything meaningful, but Tom is here, beautiful, and so, so _alive._ There will be no one prematurely dying this time if Will has anything to do with it. Unlike before, it’s Tom who groans into the kiss first, arms threading behind Will’s head. 

_There’s not enough time to do anything meaningful._ Having had enough, Will pulls him up the stairs to the guest room with the unfortunate decor and accepts Tom’s weight as they fall back on the bed. In a perfect world, this would be where they slowly took each other apart, but they’re on borrowed time in Will’s niece/sister/aunt’s house. Compromising, both boys resort to stroking each other with minimal undressing.

The feel of Tom again both on top of him and in his hand nearly makes Will come embarrassingly fast. But Tom slows minutely as if to savor the moment as much as possible, accompanied by a low and contented moan falling from his mouth as Will slides to simultaneously grip at his ass and dick. _That’s_ a sound he’d missed.

It’s heady and fast, the two of them alternating between bitten back curses, encouragements, and unbidden moans through each other's ministrations. Their kisses get hotter and heavier as they get closer to falling over that precipice. When it finally hits, it’s unlike anything Will’s felt in this life yet, but he supposes that’s probably the point of whatever this reincarnated soulmate shit is.

Will revels in the look and feel of Tom losing control over top of him, catalogs those sounds for later when he’s alone. And to think that Will thought he could leave him behind. 

Tom looks at him when they’re finished, the two of them lying side by side and content just to _look._ “Do you have any idea how much I love you?”

Will nods because he does. He knows all too well this feeling of Tom’s and what it means. “I know because I feel, and will always feel, the same for you.”

The eventuality of Will having to leave for London comes quicker than they both would have liked. Will had bought his train ticket home for a scheduled time last week, back when his purpose of visiting Aunt Eleanor was to simply celebrate her birthday a week early. Now, standing on the platform, Will leaning against a column with Tom draped around him in a semblance of a loose hug, he wishes he had thought differently.

“Are you sure I can’t come back with you right now?” Tom asks, voice muffled from where his face is half-pressed part of the way into Will’s shoulder.

They had talked about plans last night, of the way forward and what to do. Will wants to concede on yet one more thing and let Tom come with him now, but he’s got to hold steadfast on _something_ related to what’s best for Tom.

“You’ve got your last final exam to take on Wednesday; you can’t leave with me right now. I’ll see you on Friday though, yeah? You’ll be there for my thesis defense rehearsal?”

Tom pulls his face away from Will’s shoulder and looks up at him with a small smile. “Yeah, ‘course. Wouldn’t miss it.”

The warning bell for his train sounds, and Will feels Tom tighten his grip just enough to be noticeable. The train will leave in five minutes, and as much as Will wants to miss it, he knows he can’t.

“Hey, look at me?” Tom pulls his head back up, and Will takes the opportunity to just look for a few moments before he tips his face forward to catch Tom’s lips in a gentle kiss. It’s not a ‘goodbye’, but a ‘see you soon’. “I’ll see you Friday, yeah? We did thirty-five years, we can do a few days,” Will murmurs before drawing his arms away from Tom.

“Yeah.” Tom pulls his own hands away and steps back, giving Will space to gather his things. “I love you. Call me when you get home?”

It’s such a simple sentiment, a simple string of words, but it sets Will’s entire being alight. “I love you too. I’ll call you then.” He steps forward for one more quick kiss before walking to the train door. There aren’t a whole lot of people still milling about the train platform, so Will looks back when he’s stepped through the doorway to see Tom standing there, a sad smile on his face and hand raised in farewell. Will raises his own and then walks further into the train where Tom disappears from view.

The separation hurts of course, but it’s made marginally better knowing Tom’s alive and healthy. They’ll see each other again in a few days and decide from there. Perhaps the fates will grant them a quiet life in retribution for the last three. The thought calms Will.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still working on a prequel for my Headfirst and Fearless little series, so watch for that if you're interested.  
> Let me know what you think of this, and come scream with me at kolyarostovs.tumblr.com if you want


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